


A Rose by Any Other Name

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Drama, F/M, First Time, Insecurity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Romance, Vaginal Sex, Yusuke's Birthday Week 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: When Yusuke needs a place to stay for the summer, the Kurusu family opens their home to him.What he finds there is comfort from an unexpected source.Pink suits Akira's mother, Yusuke thinks. Not soft pastel but a hard, dark pink. He imagines her lying in a field of vibrant flowers — is she sleeping, or are her eyes just closed, finally at peace? — and she resembles her son so much that he has to glance over at his friend. Akira is clenching his jaw, but Yusuke isn't sure who he's mad at: his mother for unbuttoning her shirt or Yusuke for peering inside."My son tells me you're an artist," Akira's mother says. "Have you ever taken any classes where you work with nude models?"Akira's chair screeches against the floor, his food left half-eaten on the table as his eyes dart between Yusuke and his mother.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira's Mother
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yusuke's Birthday





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yusuke's Birthday (day six): muse + honor among thieves.
> 
> Bang time is Yusuke/Akira's mom.

###### Mother

The ex-Phantom Thieves' road trip to Kamogawa changes something in Yusuke, shattering some wall he'd built up inside. The drive itself is full of laughter and retellings of their adventures into the Metaverse — "Remember that time the Reaper almost caught up to us? Remember the time it finally did and Ryuji screamed?" — but reality digs deep. It worms its way into Yusuke far easier than the forced camaraderie does.

Akira is moving back home and he isn't coming back. Not anytime soon, anyway. Their lives are changing and nobody has the power to stop it. Only Akira could feasibly turn things around, but he won't. Something pulls him back to his hometown the same way Tokyo gnaws at Yusuke. It's where he grew up, and while he can't change that fact, it doesn't mean that Tokyo has to be his home forever.

Yusuke would follow Akira wherever he wanted to go, from the remotest corner of Japan to another country entirely. It'd be hard to cut ties, to sever the roots that have been thriving for almost eighteen years, but he would.

The ex-Phantom Thieves only come to escort Akira home; they didn't plan for anything beyond that. No one wanted to think of what comes after. Akira grabs his box of clothes and knickknacks, adorning him like a bow printed with "welcome home." He's balancing his box in the crook of one elbow, reaching into his pants pocket for his house key, before Ryuji rushes over to help him. Morgana hops out of the car and saunters over to them, his tail curling in the air.

Then Akira beckons everyone inside, and who are they to refuse when none of them want to leave? He is the magnet that pulls them all together.

Akira tells them his parents are out of the house, and Yusuke wonders why they aren't here to welcome their only son back. Are they busy people like Ann's parents or are they more like Madarame, wanting little to do with their son unless he can provide something of value to them? Some beneficial service or physical good?

The Kurusu home is a small three-story house. The front room is the entryway, dining room, and kitchen all mashed into one, and everyone has to squeeze past the dining table single file to head upstairs to Akira's room on the third floor. Yusuke is last in line, lagging behind to organize the mountain of shoes his friends leave behind. Ryuji in particular tossed his shoes to the middle of the floor, a potential hazard for whoever comes in next.

It's as Yusuke stands up, the shoe pile now organized by size and style, that he hears the front door open. The sudden cool breeze licks up his neck and he tries to retreat into the front room as much as he can, his hip bumping a dining chair as he bows.

And there she stands, as graceful as Akira and more: Kurusu Miyako. Her hair is dark, curled away from her face in waves; her black turtleneck clings to her chest and hips. She holds a plastic shopping bag in one hand, awkwardly peering past Yusuke.

"Akira's come home," she says. Her voice is neither sad nor happy. "And you're his friend?"

Yusuke introduces himself and when he looks into the eyes of Akira's mother, he sees the same stormy gray as that of her son.

"You're not the type of boy I thought he'd befriend," Miyako admits, making her way past Yusuke to start unpacking her bag: a shrink-wrapped sandwich, a handful of sweets, and a tube of cheap corner store lipstick. Random things she might've wanted but nothing she couldn't have lived without for a few hours. An excuse to leave the house, to let her mind wander.

Yusuke stares at the lipstick — "rose madder," the label reads — and imagines it painted on Akira's lips. His friend's wardrobe never seems to slip far past dark and cautious, hinging on a desire to fit in. But if it ever did, if Akira had a whole other side to him, is this the sort of color he might use, his lips a playful, reddish pink? Like Joker, but even more mischievous.

When Miyako clears her throat, Yusuke looks up at her again. Akira would look good wearing the lipstick, but so would his mother.

"What do you mean?" Yusuke finally asks. There's so much Akira's mother must know about her son, not only his secrets but the things he's never mentioned for any number of reasons. Here's his chance now to dig a little more into the man he's known as Joker. "What kind of friends did he have here in Kamogawa?"

But Akira's mother ignores Yusuke's question, overlooking his biting curiosity as she sidles up next to him, her hand brushing up his arm.

"You're very handsome," she says. Her fingertips are cold, raising goosebumps wherever they touch Yusuke's skin. They've been alone for a while, but it's only now that Yusuke realizes how truly cut off he is from his friends. "Would you like something to eat?"

Yusuke's eyes flicker past her to the stairs — then back to Miyako, her eyes pooling with color. Graphite, just like Akira's. The keeper of secrets, the stealer of hearts.

"I should be heading upstairs. Everyone is —"

Had Yusuke's friends even noticed he stayed behind? Was his absence noted and brushed off?

"Everyone is there," Yusuke says. Not waiting, not curious. Merely there.

Miyako steps out of Yusuke's way, her hand at her throat, brushing her turtleneck in thought.

"It was good meeting you, Yusuke," she says.

###### Beach

Yusuke manages to slip out of the Kurusu home soon after meeting up with his friends in Akira's room. Whether unseen or forgotten, he doesn't know, but he wishes to see some of the sights before they leave.

Kamogawa will forever be the home of secrets to him, the city of unspoken words and anguished dreams.

His love for art gave him the same curiosity that lures him to Akira now. What inspired the artists behind his favorite masterpieces, the paintings sentenced to live out their lives in the most prestigious museums? Sometimes it's love, other times the agony of trauma. Gains, loss, complacency.

Who was Akira before Yusuke knew him? What kind of books did he read? What brought him joy?

Whenever Yusuke asks, Akira tends to brush him off, waving his hand at him as if to say, "What, the present me isn't enough for you?"

Akira will always be enough for him; he fills Yusuke's heart, his mind, his soul, all until he's ready to burst. And yet Yusuke wants to know more. After everything they've been through, doesn't he deserve at least a few answers? He wants to know what makes Akira tick, but Akira isn't willing to open up, to show him his gears, what winds him.

Maybe Akira's never had that: someone who wants to know him so deeply, someone who persists relentlessly. He never mentioned any of his friends from back in Kamogawa when he was living in Tokyo, so they mustn't have been close. Yusuke doesn't want that for him and Akira, but part of him thinks that might the sort of doom fated for them.

Who is he to demand more? Yusuke can't put it into words — doesn't want to put it into words; what's the point, and who would even listen? — so he's always painting. His frustration is red hot, boiling over into some of the most beloved paintings of his art career thus far.

Art isn't the answer; art is the single strip of understanding in his otherwise dull life. When he paints, he seeks the answers to all of his questions — _why must Akira make my stomach twist in knots, why must he refuse to indulge my attempts to get closer, why is the thought of him moving so far away unbearable_ — and in reply, he receives a strange sort of peace.

It's that same peace he feels as he looks up at the Kamogawa sunset, his arms wrapped around his knees as the ocean waves lap at his feet. The sky is a mix of dark orange and bruised purple. A finality. It takes Yusuke's breath away the same way finishing a painting does, that satisfaction of completing something so personal, despite his true qualms never being addressed. Art might never be able to tell him why Akira doesn't lean into his pull — what is it about Yusuke that he finds so repugnant? — but it takes his mind off the worst of the pain. Art soothes him.

Yusuke has always been alone for the most part. Madarame didn't lock him in his room, but he might as well have. Why would he venture outside to mingle with people his age when everything he's always needed resides indoors? He's always slipped through the world unseen, through the streets, the parks, the busiest tourist attractions — but he is water in the palms of the world. Yusuke exists to create, soaking in the sights and emotions of the world so that he can slink back to his easel and paint. An onlooker. An observer. People point him out as he frames the things that inspire him with his hands, but it's always due to his strangeness. His stiffness. He isn't a person worthy of interaction to them, a person who is deeper than his often ostentatious first impression.

The first person to make him feel seen, opaque and obvious and human in a way no one had ever managed before, was Akira. And thus began the pull, their two planets teetering on the edge of closeness but never quite within orbit.

Sometimes Yusuke wonders if it's a joke of fate for him to so deeply desire the first person to see him — and the first person to deny his craving.

Now the sky is blurry, and as Yusuke wipes his eyes with his sleeve, he smiles. It will pass; it must pass. He isn't any less of a man for falling in love with the first person to truly see him. It is a cliche that has always plagued humankind; Yusuke isn't anything special. Not even Yusuke's thoughts and emotions are remarkable, but Akira feels special. To Yusuke, anyway.

Ann comes to collect him when it's time to go. She sits beside him on the sand, not too close at first until the silence sinks in, and then she scoots close enough for their shoulders to bump.

She doesn't ask if he's sad. If she realizes he's been crying, she doesn't mention that, either.

"I'm gonna miss him, too," she says, sighing out over the sea. For a while they just sit together, watching the sky and pondering their own demons.

When they're heading back to the car, Yusuke asks if she'll pose for another painting sometime, and the grin that slips over her face is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. The relief that someone she cares about will be all right, will make it through to the other side of his slump — that simple smile is more inspiring than Yusuke could ever express.

There's only one person missing in the car, but it may as well be an entire roomful gone. Just gone.

"Are you gonna say goodbye?" Ann asks, strapping in her seatbelt.

Yusuke thinks about how he tried to say his farewells on the ride here, sitting right beside Akira and yet so far away. Akira kept telling him how it wasn't goodbye, not really. It's a beginning, of sorts. Distance doesn't tarnish friendship — not always. As long as they don't let it.

Yusuke couldn't tell him that the thought of losing whatever closeness they have is unbearable. No more slinking through Tokyo with Akira to window shop; no more late-night adventures taking them as far as the eye can see, all in a desperate attempt to grasp true beauty both in his art and within himself; no more stopping by Leblanc early enough to catch Akira with his sleep tousled hair making his way downstairs; no more watching Akira put on his apron in that painstaking way of his, retying it in the back so that it'd be centered just right.

For nearly an entire year, Yusuke took that physical proximity for granted. Now it'll just be the ghosts of his memories sweeping through the city streets.

And thus Yusuke's body returns to Tokyo, but his heart remains there in Kamogawa beneath the bruised sky where Akira will never see it.

###### Disconnected

It's been nearly half a year since Yusuke last saw Akira. Six long months of steeling himself, but he hadn't meant to run out of money to pay his phone bill. The selfish reality is that Yusuke's almost grateful for the state of his finances; spending money on beautiful things brings him joy, and in turn he can't use his phone, can't hear Akira's voice or read his optimistic words about how the miles between them could never tear them apart. Six months is nothing in the grand scheme of things. A single drop in the ocean.

But the distance has taken its toll, and the wind scattered the ex-Phantom Thieves. Yusuke let that day in Kamogawa be an ending to his old life — as Akira had assured him it wouldn't be, not if they held on to what was important — but today starts a new chapter.

It's summer break now with all the freedoms and seasonal delights that it usually entails just around the corner, from summer festivals in his cotton yukata to his favorite foods. But then the notice arrives that his dormitory will be remodeling over the summer break, and Yusuke won't have a place to stay once he's inevitably kicked out. There won't be any monetary compensation, either — a dreadful situation all around.

In a near comical repeat of last year, his friends make excuses for why they can't house him. It is such short notice, after all. And nobody's guardian would agree, either.

Ann is studying abroad, but there's no way her parents would allow him to stay in their home while they're all away; Ryuji's out of Tokyo at physical therapy; Makoto and Haru are off at university; and according to Futaba, Sojiro is using Leblanc's attic for storage. Packed to the brim with all sorts of dusty goodies, she says.

In truth, Yusuke could have stayed in better contact with everyone before now. With wifi in cafes and restaurants abound, he's sure he could've managed, even if it meant spending a little extra money on food or getting shooed from a restaurant for loitering outside, sucking up the wifi in a desperate attempt to connect to the outside world. He could have mooched off of Futaba's internet, if anything.

Yusuke could have done a lot of things, but with how preoccupied he's been with school and painting, he didn't. So now he's just sitting in a cafe with an untouched cup of coffee as he waits, his luggage bag cradled between his legs under the table, for a solution to fall from the sky.

Or, more accurately, to fall from Takamaki Ann herself.

"Why don't you ask Akira?" she says, her chat bubble popping up on his phone screen.

"That's quite a suggestion," he replies, referring more to the issue of emotional distance rather than physical, but Ann attempts to reassure him.

"It's not so far by train. I'm sure Akira could lend you money for the ticket, too."

Yusuke imagines texting Akira out of the blue for the first time in six months, begging for money and a temporary home. Shameful, but how many options does he have?

"You better be texting him right now," Ann writes. "Or I'll have to do it for you."

Somehow Ann carrying out her threat seems like it'd be less mortifying for him than bridging the distance himself, but Yusuke takes the plunge. His fingers tremble as he types the message, sweat pooling at the neckline of his shirt, but there it is. Sent.

Not too long after sending the first message to Akira, Yusuke is free of the cafe and riding a train over to Kamogawa, the home of secrets. Akira hadn't even asked many questions about how Yusuke ended up in this predicament, only how he could help. Always ready to offer a helping hand. And the six months they've been apart without contact? Water under the bridge, it seems.

It'll just be for a few weeks. Short weeks, at that. Then he'll be back in Tokyo, nothing different about him at all.

The man who leaves Tokyo will be the same who returns, he thinks.

Yusuke is wrong.

###### Home

With Yusuke's futon unfurled next to Akira's bed, there isn't much space left in the room. In the morning they'll tuck it up in the closet, but Yusuke's bed is set for now. Morgana is curled up on Akira's bed, his eyes opening every so often to peer at them, awaiting the call for dinner.

Akira doesn't ask Yusuke why the first time he's heard from him in months is when he needs a place to stay. It's like a sleepover again, a vacation of sorts, and Akira is almost cheerful. He shares his smile and laughter so easily, as if they've been able to pick up right where they left off half a year ago. Yusuke remembers back when he asked Akira's mother about his friends, and she hadn't answered him. Maybe Akira doesn't have any friends; not anymore, at least. Not after his exile to Tokyo for a crime he didn't commit.

Akira's mother introduces herself again once she's herded them downstairs for dinner, all at her insistence. She plops portions of stir-fry noodles onto three plates and sets them on the table along with bowls of soup and rice. There's a rice cooker on the counter and a dirty pot on the stove, but Yusuke can see the convenience store bag sticking out of the trash. For dessert, she even has small slices of castella cake, still encased in their plastic packaging. Even their furry friend is provided a pungent can of gourmet wet food on the floor next to Akira as a treat.

It's far more than Yusuke is used to eating so he digs in, grateful for the meal. He hadn't given much notice before coming over, after all, and he apologizes for this, but the meal sets an uncomfortable tone for the household. Akira is sitting adjacent to his mother, his chair inching away from hers every so often. His easy smile from earlier when they were alone is gone, replaced with curious indifference.

Seeing both mother and son together like this accentuates their similarities — and their differences. Their hair is the same pitch color, and Yusuke wonders if Miyako's gleams a golden brown in the sun the way Akira's does. They have the same gray eyes but Miyako's aren't shielded by glasses, and when she looks at Yusuke, her expression holds a strange clearness. A woman confident in who she is.

"It's a bit hot in here, don't you think?" Miyako asks during dinner, fanning herself with her hand. Morgana agrees with what must sound like a soft mewl to her. "Sometimes the fans just aren't enough with this heat. I keep telling Akira's father — you'll meet him soon. He tends to work late."

She undoes the first few buttons of her blouse as she talks, drawing Yusuke's eyes to her now bare collarbone, sharp and seductive. A confident woman indeed.

"Mom," Akira protests. It's the first thing he's said since he started eating.

Miyako waves his frustration away, a laugh on her lips as she leans closer to Yusuke. He's sure she's just being friendly, but then he sees the way her blouse falls away from her chest, the lacy pink bra cupping her breasts. Yusuke remembers the lipstick from last time, its name some variation of rose, and wonders if that's the shade she's wearing now.

Pink suits her, Yusuke thinks. Not soft pastel but a hard, dark pink. He imagines her lying in a field of vibrant flowers — is she sleeping, or are her eyes just closed, finally at peace? — and she resembles Akira so much that he has to glance over at his friend. Akira is clenching his jaw, but Yusuke isn't sure who he's mad at: Miyako for unbuttoning her shirt or Yusuke for peering inside.

"Akira tells me you're an artist," Miyako says. "Have you ever taken any classes where you work with nude models?"

Akira's chair screeches against the floor, his food left half-eaten on the table as his eyes dart between Yusuke and his mother.

"I'm just curious," she says, sitting up, one hand clutching the fabric of her blouse together as if to hide the evidence of what Yusuke saw. "You've never been the artistic sort, have you? You've never fostered any ambitions at all, really."

"I'm going to bed. You coming, Yusuke?"

When Akira looks at him, Yusuke knows he has a choice — but does he? Yusuke helps Akira's mother put away the leftovers before turning to follow his friend upstairs. Miyako calls out to him, bidding him goodnight, and with her hand clutched to her chest as she stands in the small dining room, she seems brighter than any star. Alone but defiant. The urge to frame her with his fingers almost captures him, but Akira calls for him again and he trots upstairs. Once Morgana has lapped up the final morsels of wet food, he follows them into Akira's room, flopping onto the bed, his stomach full.

"I'm sorry about my mom," Akira says, lying on his bed beside Morgana, stroking his back. The curtains are drawn, but wisps of the sunset's glow still seep into the room as Akira covers his face with his arm. "She gets lonely. My dad's always working. When she got pregnant with me, I wasn't exactly expected. Or wanted. But she tolerates me."

Yusuke lies on his futon, turning onto his side to watch Akira from below. He's always below him, isn't he?

 _She looks like you,_ Yusuke thinks — and almost says. But that'd be showing his cards too soon, when Yusuke isn't even sure there's a game to be played. He thinks of Miyako, of how she'd look even more like Akira if she wore glasses, and his mind starts to trail off. Yusuke wants to paint her — with flowers and everything else that comes to mind — to explore the similarities she shares with her son and everything beyond. He wishes to paint her loneliness with shapes and colors, as he does with his own.

In a way, Akira sharing more about himself is a boon. This is what Yusuke wanted, to learn about the man beneath the mask. About where he came from, what blocks helped build and shape him.

But greed captures Yusuke. Would Miyako allow him to paint her? He could set up his easel and prep a small canvas; for the first time in so long, he feels like he's getting somewhere, chipping away at some unseen treasure encased in stone.

"You never spoke about your parents," Yusuke says, a sliver of guilt cutting him for prying. "Back in Tokyo."

"They never wrote to me. Never called." Akira rolls over to face Yusuke. His glasses are on the table, but the soft reddish marks remain on his nose from where the pads rested. The smallest details still, will forever, enrapture him.

 _A bit closer,_ Yusuke thinks. _Just a bit closer, please._

Akira is so close that Yusuke could reach out, cup his cheek, feel his lips with his fingers. But the distance will never be bridged; Yusuke will never leap across the chasm that divides them. To gain would be everything, but to lose him would be something Yusuke isn't willing to risk.

So he just watches Akira's eyes eventually flutter closed as he loses his battle with sleep. He starts to snore after a while — soft, breathy sounds — and Yusuke remembers when Akira told him he only snores when he's comfortable. At ease.

When Akira's arm slips off the bed, Yusuke takes his chance, holding his hand as he'd never dare to when his friend was awake.


	2. Chapter 2

###### Paint

Miyako holds some of her son's laugh: soft but often held back, her hand covering her mouth as if to repress her delight. Doesn't she know how brightly she shines, how inspiring her smile is?

Yusuke's been staying with the Kurusu family for a week now, and he's still finding connections between mother and son. He has yet to meet Akira's elusive father, but at this point, maybe it's for the best. He isn't a significant part of Akira or Miyako's life, so what does it matter if they never meet?

Akira's mother is sitting on the bed, her hands resting in her lap. It isn't a very dynamic pose for Yusuke to work with, but for now it doesn't matter. He's studying her with his paint: the curls of dark umber, the steel of her eyes, the mix of rose beige for her skin. Yusuke pays particular attention to the shape, the curve of her lips; although she has a wry smile upon her face, it never reaches her eyes. Her eyes tell a different story, one of mischief and daring.

"I'm sure Akira's told you about how I'm a horrible mother," she says, her hands twisting in her lap. Her dress is black, mournful, the hem resting just above her knees; a rounded Peter Pan-style collar adorns her throat.

Yusuke grabs a new brush, fresh for the black of her dress. "No, nothing like that."

_Not exactly, anyway._

"You're sweet." Miyako cocks her head ever so slightly, the lines of her dress moving with her, skewing the whole painting. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Yusuke was about to scold her for moving, but this throws him off guard. He doesn't have a girlfriend, no, but he is otherwise occupied in that department. But how could he express this in a way so that she doesn't pry into the fact that Yusuke is head over heels for her son?

Akira isn't his, will never be his, but the thought of someone else burns him like a betrayal.

"I do not have a romantic partner, no." Should he say he doesn't want one, or would she see through his half-truth? Art is his everything — he's always been upfront about that — but Akira would enhance his spirit. What might he paint after a night in Akira's embrace? What might he be able to pull from himself to lie bare upon his canvas after Akira finally realizes Yusuke sees him just as Akira understands him, real and raw and so much more than the sum of his parts? Oddities in their own worlds, but together they are clear, opaque, shining.

Miyako stands, shattering Yusuke's composition. Something inside of him shatters too at the fact that they'll never be able to set everything up the same way again. She'll never be sitting in the same spot at that exact angle, the lines of her flowing in that particular way. Even the bed she steps away from is smooth; the wrinkles on the coverlet that formed along her hips vanish.

She steps onto the drop cloth with him, into Yusuke's domain. He set it out to protect the wood flooring but also to establish distance. Miyako ignores it; she crushes any sense of personal space. Her hand is on Yusuke's chest without even a glint of reluctance or fear in her eyes. She pulls him away from his easel, his life, and into something much darker.

Her hands pat his hair, cup his cheek, not with condescension but curiosity. His body tingles at the sensation of skin on skin, as simple as it is; like her, he is famished.

When they kiss, when they finally cross that chasm, her lips are soft. He rests his hands on Miyako's shoulders, not daring enough yet to venture further, while her arms wrap around his waist to pull him closer. Impossibly close, her breasts pressing against his chest.

"If I had a girlfriend, would it matter?" Yusuke asks. It's still midday, the sun bright outside. Akira is away with Morgana, picking up something scrumptious for dinner. But for how long?

"No," she admits. "It wouldn't."

Miyako pulls her dress up over her head, and just like that she's almost entirely bare. She's wearing a different bra than the last he saw, this one yellow, golden like the sun. It unhooks in the front and as it falls to the ground, he wonders if she planned all this. She must have, but does it matter? Her body is warm against his and she smells like the soap they keep in the bathroom, the faintest scent of flowers, and Yusuke will forever hold it in his heart as a smell unique to the Kurusu home. To Miyako — to Akira.

She guides his shaking hand to her breast and his first instinct is to squeeze, to soak in the softness, the fullness of her skin in his hand. His thumb brushes her nipple and she shudders beneath him, and it's at this moment that he realizes he doesn't care about the line he's crossed. She wants something beyond him and he wants something beyond her, something so close and yet so far, but she can give him the closest thing he'll ever have to his dream come true.

"Have you ever had sex?" she asks once she's perched over him on the bed, with nothing between them but unspoken words. Their clothes are strewn across the floor in haphazard piles; if Akira or his father saw, they'd know from the clutter alone, even if Yusuke and Miyako left the room. Part of Yusuke almost wants someone to know, to slip into the bubble of their secret.

He shakes his head, too flustered to voice the word. Her hands are all over him in ways he never imagined could feel good: nails raking down his ribs, fingers smoothing down his sides. Always so close to where he wants her to touch but never quite there. She watches his erection form as she touches him, her smile finally meeting her eyes; she still has the power to make a man feel desire. Her grin is wicked, greedy. She will take until there is nothing left to give, and Yusuke will let her.

Everyone deserves to be loved, he thinks.

Finally she grasps him, her fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. She rises over him, her thumb caressing the underside of him, curiosity painting her face. When was the last time she touched someone like this? When was the last time Akira's father told her he loves her?

Then she's sinking down onto him, and his first moan is so guttural it makes his throat ache. She claimed to be on birth control while they were shedding their clothes, and it never occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't trust her as he trusts Akira. They have yet to build to that level of credence. But he lets his vision blur for she is Akira, isn't she? The closest to Akira he will ever have.

She grips him like nothing he has ever known, tighter than his fist and hot and wet. As she rocks her hips, she watches his face. The moans ripple through his throat. He feels the curves of her waist, her hips, beneath his palms. How can he make her feel good? How can he repay her for her mercy?

Miyako chuckles, reaching toward the end table next to the bed, and although she doesn't leave him completely, he almost begs her to stay.

"Almost forgot these," she says, hooking a pair of thick glasses over her ears. "Well, how do I look?"

She knows Yusuke's secret — when did she realize, he wonders — but it changes nothing. He can't speak, can't make a sound; his fingers dig into her hips as she laughs at his desperation, the infatuation swelling within him that she has played along with such ease.

Yusuke sits up, the animal within uncaged as he crushes her against him, their lips a sloppy mess of kisses. Her glasses — did she steal a pair from Akira? — dig into his face, a gift he never asked for, never felt he deserved.

Her hands are on his shoulders, helping her ease up off of him and back down, the rhythm of their bodies meeting uneven and shaky. Any lingering apprehension he might've had washes away; all he wants is more, more. Harder, faster.

He could come right now, spilling inside her, and that'd be the end. Yusuke shakes his head as if that alone could stave off his release. It is Akira in his arms; it is less; it is more.

"I need you," he says, burying his face in her neck.

"You have me." She pushes him back, forcing him to face her as she tilts his chin up. "I'm here."

Then he's on his back again as she rides him, his toes curling in pleasure. She's moving so fast, using him for her own release, her hips slapping against his as she reaches down to stroke her clit. The glasses fall from her face, hitting Yusuke's chest before tumbling onto the bed, but Yusuke has the image ingrained in his mind.

It is Akira above him, now and always.

Akira's mother comes first, collapsing onto his chest, her breaths heavy. They're still rocking together but it's slower now, without that initial tinge of desperation. He can feel her tighten around him, clenching, and he has no idea how he's lasted this long. Her body melds with his in a way that he never wants to end, never wants to lose. Losing this warmth is not something he can comprehend. He holds her to his chest, her breasts pressing against him, and he is lost. His hips shudder, trembling as he fills her, his arms clutching her as if she might fall away if he doesn't hold her.

She is a woman starved and he is a man doomed in love. Together they are broken, halves from entirely separate worlds, but together they make a misshapen whole.

Yusuke watches her stand, shaky on her feet. He reaches out to steady her, but she catches herself. She smiles down at him, another genuine smirk.

"Would you care for a shower?" she asks. It's Miyako offering a hand to him this time, leading him downstairs to the shower, still nude. The thought of Akira or his father coming home and seeing seems almost comical at this point; Yusuke is still riding his high. For now, he feels invincible.

Again in the shower, Miyako opens her legs to him, beckoning him with her eyes. When her hair is wet, the thick curls drift away and she looks even more like her son. How many of these secrets will he learn before his time in Kamogawa is up? How will he manage to keep them all, bundled up inside?

She is beautiful from behind. From every angle. Bent over the sink, pressed up against the wall.

Still she wants more, and still he has love to give. If he moans Akira's name, she doesn't chastise him. Doesn't say a word. She just tells him how good he is, how eager.

"I suppose I'll have my hands full for the next few weeks," she says after one round, stroking Yusuke's still-hard erection, overstimulated and yet nowhere near satisfied. He is ravenous.

"Yes," Yusuke agrees, bringing her into his arms again, his arousal pressing into the warmest part of her. "For the next few weeks, I am yours."

###### Interlude

After spending the majority of his life thus far in Tokyo, Yusuke thought he had a million new things to show Akira. In turn, Akira likely had a million and one things to show Yusuke back in Kamogawa.

Everyone left their unique mark on Akira, dragging him to the various corners of the city and beyond. Ann knew the trendiest clothes stores and the restaurants that wouldn't bug patrons too much when all they wanted was a drink and a corner to think; Ryuji knew the most secluded hiking trails and the arcades with the machines that, with just a bit of shaking, eagerly spat out their prizes.

But it was Yusuke who took it upon himself to show Akira the art galleries; the out-of-the-way parks; the museums, from kites to bunshin tattoos; the public art murals and sculptures throughout the city. All of the places that are seen but unseen, obvious but cleverly hidden. Many people pass by the massive mural at the station by Yusuke's dorm on a daily basis, but few people stop to enjoy it.

If Yusuke were new to Tokyo he'd want to know where he could see the stars the clearest, where he could watch the best variety of people scuttle by, from women in crisp business suits to schoolboys tugging at the collar of their uniform; to children clutching red schoolbags to old men with canes. Yusuke would want to know, and thus he showed Akira all of the places that helped shape him.

And yet it was Akira who showed him simple things that had been right under his nose: books, songs, games. And more of those intangible things that he couldn't fit into words: that tightness in his chest, that wave crashing over him as his cloak of invisibility was somehow torn from him.

Then came the food. Simple, effective.

It was cold that day; frost clutched the grass, the streets, the world. All before the collapse of the Metaverse, back when they were still Phantom Thieves. Leblanc's bell chimed louder than ever as Akira and Yusuke hurried inside, shedding their coats.

"There's something I want you to try," Akira said, gesturing to an empty booth before slipping past the counter to the fridge.

Akira set a container on the table, popped the lid off, and told Yusuke to close his eyes. Something brushed against his lips and he opened his mouth, biting at whatever Akira was holding. He trusted him.

It was flaky. Sweet.

"It tastes like breaded cream," Yusuke said, and when he opened his eyes, Akira smiled.

"It's a cream puff. I thought you might like it," Akira said, holding another to Yusuke's lips. But that time his fingers lingered, and Yusuke wondered what could be running through his mind. Did he have any idea how his proximity was affecting Yusuke? Did he even realize he was touching his face so intimately?

Yusuke bit the next cream puff too quickly and his hand shot up to catch the renegade cream. Globs of it stuck to Yusuke's fingers and Akira scooped it off, sticking it in his own mouth as if nothing were amiss.

When thinking back on that day, Yusuke always associated that moment with sadness. So close and yet so far. He didn't think too much into it, didn't peel back the layers.

Yusuke showed Akira around Tokyo, but it was Akira who showed him, for the first time, how to love another person.

And yet Yusuke betrayed him in the worst way. All for art, for greed, for his own accursed pleasure.

* * *

Yusuke is a fox chasing his wily prey through the snow-choked forest.

He never catches it, and in his mad rush, he loses part of himself amidst those endless trees.

###### Exhibit

The museum is small and square, baked an off-white by the sun. Above the entrance lies a row of long windows, and once Yusuke has passed beneath them, the air conditioning inside envelops him.

"I've never been here," Akira says, fiddling with the strap of his bag as Morgana peeks out. "Despite, y'know, growing up here."

There are many things in Kamogawa that Akira hasn't seen, Yusuke has come to realize. And many more he hasn't seen for what they truly are.

The theme of this week's exhibit is local artists and subjects. Not being a resident of the city, Yusuke decided to focus on creating something to memorialize his time here. Summer is almost over, and the remodeling of his dorm is scheduled to complete soon. In a short while, Kamogawa will be nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

"Let's go see Yusuke's painting," Morgana says, so they make their way through the aisles displaying paintings and sculptures. When Yusuke lingers too long on a single piece, Morgana howls with impatience, but Akira pats him and says they'll get to Yusuke's painting soon. Akira has always been like that — understanding, albeit not with limitless patience; he is human, after all — and Yusuke wonders if he will always be this way. Will Yusuke always love him? Will his fire always burn this bright?

Finally comes the reveal, the epilogue of their arduous journey. The portrait hangs on the far wall, the nameplate below it gleaming silver.

> "Muse" by Kitagawa Yusuke
> 
> A study into one of Kamogawa's residents, the artist uses bold colors and imagery to ponder the revelation of a person laid bare.

"That's Akira?" Morgana asks.

Yusuke hasn't asked Akira to pose for him since they were in Tokyo. He'll let them come to their own conclusions. Art is wondrous that way; there is no single interpretation.

The lighting is exquisite, hitting the canvas just right, accentuating highlights on the nude model depicted. Gray eyes peer at the viewer as the model looks over their shoulder, their arms wrapped around their chest.

Yusuke watches Akira's face as he traces the curves with his eyes: the smallest hint of a breast beneath an arm, the swooping waist, the full hips. The model has Akira's hair, his glasses — but it is so much more.

Akira squints as he notices the final touch, the damning revelation: in the model's hair is tucked a single rose.

Yusuke's heart thumps in his chest as Akira faces him, the lights illuminating his glasses with a full-on glare, and for once, Yusuke turns his back on him.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Miyako deserves a whole multi-chapter story to tell more about her character, but here she is.
> 
> I was looking at my watercolor paints to pick a color to note for Miyako's lipstick, and I thought rose madder was a nice shade. But I also chose that one as a slight nod to Stephen King's book of the same name as a sort of allusion that something might be off with Akira's mom. "Rose Madder" is also about a painting, which is nifty.


End file.
